left the monastery with the
dawn, intending to follow the King's march [255], and watch and pray near
the awful battle-field. Edith listened, and made no reply; the terrors
of the abbess infected her; the example of the two monks woke the sole
thought which stirred through the nightmare dream that suspended reason
itself; and when, at noon the abbess again sought the chamber, Edith was
gone;--gone, and alone--none knew wherefore--one guessed whither.

All the pomp of the English army burst upon Harold's view, as, in the
rising sun, he approached the bridge of the capital. Over that bridge
came the stately march,--battle-axe, and spear, and banner, glittering in
the ray. And as he drew aside, and the forces filed before him, the cry
of; "God save King Harold!" rose with loud acclaim and lusty joy, borne
over the waves of the river, startling the echoes in the ruined keape of
the Roman, heard in the halls restored by Canute, and chiming, like a
chorus, with the chaunts of the monks by the tomb of Sebba in St.
Paul's--by the tomb of Edward at St. Peter's.

With a brightened face, and a kindling eye, the King saluted his lines,
and then fell into the ranks towards the rear, where among the burghers
of London and the lithsmen of Middlesex, the immemorial custom of Saxon
monarchs placed the kingly banner. And, looking up, he beheld, not his
old standard with the Tiger heads and the Cross, but a banner both
strange and gorgeous. On a field of gold was the effigies of a Fighting
Warrior; and the arms were bedecked in orient pearls, and the borders
blazed in the rising sun, with ruby, amethyst, and emerald. While he
gazed, wondering, on this dazzling ensign, Haco, who rode beside the
standard-bearer, advanced, and gave him a letter.

"Last night," said he, "after thou hadst left the palace, many recruits,
chiefly from Hertfordshire and Essex, came in; but the most gallant and
stalwart of all, in arms and in stature, were the lithsmen of Hilda.
With them came this banner, on which she has lavished the gems that have
passed to her hand through long lines of northern ancestors, from Odin,
the founder of all northern thrones. So, at least, said the bode of our
kinswoman."

Harold had already cut the silk round the letter, and was reading its
contents. They ran thus:--

"King of England, I forgive thee the broken heart of my grandchild. They
whom the land feeds, should defend the land. I send to thee, in tribute
the be